A Good Team
by KNS
Summary: Filler Scene During S5 Finale.


A Good Team

By KNS

Disclaimer: And still again – not mine. All characters belong to their creators.

Sam could hear the muffled voices even from outside Michael's loft. Fiona's car was in the lot, but Michael's was not. He took the stairs two at a time. The door's handle was burning hot, as it always was this time of day because of the slanting sunlight. But at least it turned easily in his hand – unlocked, as it never was, unless Michael was inside and awake and near a weapon.

Or if Fiona had let herself inside.

And Fiona was inside.

Sam stopped dead in the doorway, his hand still on the burning door handle. He was looking at something so impossible, he was momentarily shocked into stillness.

Fiona was handcuffed to the grate dividing Michael's loft into quasi-rooms. Her white dress stuck to her skin in several places, and her face was shiny with sweat or tears or both. There was a wildness in her eyes that would have scared any half-sane person.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked, still frozen in place.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Fi shouted at him. She was so angry that her Irish accent completely covered her voice. "Gimme me purse so I can open this damn lock!"

He looked and saw her bag on the table. Quickly he rushed towards it, the burn of the door handle finally registering in his mind. "How did this happen?" he asked again.

"A set of handcuffs happened, you twit," she snarled, snatching her purse from him with her free hand. She dumped the contents, sending car keys and wallet and handgun sliding across the floor. A handful of metal hairpins also went clattering to the floor and scattered in three directions. "Hurry up and get those!"

Her order sent him scrambling for the pins, stretching to reach the one under the bed. Sam had seen her angry before – he'd even seen her furious once or twice. Honestly, she almost always carried a low-lying irritation around her. But never, never had he seen her like this.

She dropped the first twist of metal he handed her. "Take it easy, sister," he said, trying to sound funny. Up close, he could see the broken nails on her free hand, and the angry red rings on her tied wrist, gained from yanking against the restraint. And she was shaking, a fine trembling that screamed of anger and exhaustion – and maybe a little fear. "Here, here – I got it."

He fiddled with the lock for a moment. The white-hot heat emanating from her small frame was almost as searing as the doorknob had been. "There – got it," he announced, feeling the tumblers fall into place.

She snarled at him wordlessly and dodged away, rubbing her wrist and pushing back her hair. She was cursing softly in multiple languages, and Sam was sincerely grateful he could only understand a few bits and pieces. "God, I've hear sailors swear less," he joked, only half kidding. "Now will you tell me what happened? Where's Mike?"

Fi turned way from him, still rubbing her wrist but visibly trying to calm down. She took a deep breath, then another.

"Tick-tock, Fi," Sam prompted. "Short on time here."

Fiona whirled back around to face him, her skirt flailing around her legs. For a moment it seemed like she might go for her gun – but then she stopped and stared at him, her eyes so filled with shadows that their color couldn't be seen. "It was Michael," she said flatly. "He was literally on his way to burn his team. I tried to convince him not to, said I was going to surrender to the police. And that's when – "

Her voice abruptly dropped. "That's when he cuffed me. Said he needed more time."

Sam rubbed his forehead, realized he was using his sore hand and stopped. "That can't be right. Are you sure it was Mike?"

She just looked at him. Her expression was never easy to read – except for now, when she stood there half shaking, half crying. "You're not kidding."

She shook her head. "No."

"But why?" he asked. But in an instant he knew why: because Mike would do anything, anything to keep the small bomber safe. Even if it meant burning other operatives. Michael was obviously familiar with that particular kind of hell, but for Fi . . . "This has to stop," he said quietly, holding her gaze. What would Anson demand of Mike next? Sam didn't want to know, even though, in the back of his mind, he had his suspicions.

Fiona nodded. "I know. I know. But Sam – I only know one way out. Michael won't let me shoot Anson, and he won't do it himself. I could run, but that wouldn't solve anything. We can't let that bastard go free. Michael is so afraid – I never dreamed he could be so afraid of anything. But he is – he is." Her voice was back under control now, gone of its Irish accent, and Sam could understand each of her sad, angry words.

He half-slumped onto a milk crate and leaned against the grate. "You're gonna turn yourself in," he said. "You're giving up."

"No," she disagreed. She gained a steadiness to her voice. "I'm making it so Michael can win."

Then Sam turned his eyes to the floor. He looked at the contents of her purse strewn across the floor: a nail file, a gun clip, a small mirror that hid its reflection. "Yeah," he said quietly. She was right. Despite all the times he'd been angry/irritated/frustrated with her, he'd never doubted her tactical skills, her ability to see how things could go wrong. "He'll know it was me who uncuffed you. He'll never forgive me." It was a little selfish to say, but it was true: the man who was willing to do anything for Fiona wouldn't ever forgive the person who let her go to surrender.

Fiona looked around. She must not have seen what she wanted, because she went to the fridge and pulled out a half-empty bottle of white wine. She emptied it down the sink, then turned it in her hands until she was grasping the bottle by the neck, like a weapon.

He looked at her askance. "I know what you're thinking," he told her. "Mike won't buy it."

She walked over to him, bottle still in her hand. "He will," she said, trying to convince him or herself or both. "He'll believe it because he'll want to. Because it'll be easier than to believe the alternative."

He looked up at her, feeling a cross between guilt and gratitude. She was offering him a way to keep his best friend. And what was he offering in return? "I'll look after him. You know – while you're gone." Which would be a long, long time.

She tilted her head and managed a small smile. "Michael always said we made a good team."

"Yeah," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. He reached up and locked the handcuff around his left wrist.

Fiona moved closer, raised the bottle, and hesitated.

For a moment he saw her differently, like she was a stranger: a desperate person doing a desperate thing. And was he any different? Wasn't this his plan, too?

He met her gaze squarely. He wouldn't patronize her with platitudes, or even true praise. Instead he offered, "Try not to do it so it'll leave a scar. Elsa wouldn't like that."

She smiled at him, a real smile, one that reached her shadowed eyes and made her look young and kind. And beautiful. He'd only ever seen her smile like that once or twice: for her brother, and for Mike.

He held onto that image as the wine bottle fell towards his head.

And then –

[end]


End file.
